


Remember the Day

by JadeFlicker



Series: 10 Days of LawLu (In General) [5]
Category: One Piece
Genre: #10daysoflawlu, 10 Days of LawLu 2016, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Can be read as friendship, Day 5: Memories, Dedicated to an important friend, Emotional, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Manga, Metafiction, Minor Monkey D. Luffy/Trafalgar D. Water Law, Photography, Protectiveness, Two years late, reaction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 19:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14385225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeFlicker/pseuds/JadeFlicker
Summary: What if the Impel Down and Maineford Arcs were publishedinthe One Piece universe?





	1. Remember the Day

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to a very important friend on a very important day/anniversary. I've been working on this fic for a looooong while now, trying to perfect it (with limited success). Struggling and wrestling with it, I ended up putting a lot of other things and stories aside in order to focus on finishing this. It's a deeply personal story that I struggled with the choice of even sharing it. 
> 
> But I did.
> 
> Because some things are worth more than my own comfort, and more important than my insecurities and doubts.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudo’ed, commented, or rec’ced this series and each individual fic, and have just generally been really supportive. I really appreciate the humbling and supremely encouraging feedback I’ve been given! I hope those who have really been waiting for this enjoy!
> 
>  **Notice:** There are some bad feelings about creators of fanfiction and fanart expressed in the story. This is not meant to be critical of anyone. It's simply how the story and characters' feelings decided to lay themselves out.

 

It all came down to money.

 

Money…and maybe a good deal of resentment.

 

“This is everything?”

 

A man in a dark trench coat grimaced at the shadowy figure shuffling through the folders and content spread across the table. It was a stupid enough question that it didn’t merit an answer. After all, he wouldn’t _be_ here if this wasn’t everything he could get his hands on.

 

At this point, you’d think he’d be used to dealing with paranoid people and shady figures. Still…

 

This was a first even for _him_.

 

But for all intents and purposes, dealing with this stranger wasn’t _that_ different from doing business with Cipher Pol, the World Government, or even certain other branches of the Marines.

 

Making an annoyed sound, he eyed his cameras sitting hostage across the table. It _itched_ not having either his mechanical camera or Cameko snail close. They were his bread and butter, practically a part of him with how often he had them on him. But the Revolutionary agent (or at least someone who _claimed_ to be one) didn’t want to take chances.

 

Honestly, he didn’t care _who_ they were as long as they weren’t any of his former employers. He didn’t care _what_ they wanted the photos for, as long as nobody tracked him down after this. Akainu, his boot-lickers and cult followers, the resisting “Reformers” Marine sect...They could all kiss his ass and drop dead. Do the world a favor and _wipe each other out_. He didn’t give a _damn_ anymore.

 

 _Fuck_ them.

 

Fuck _them_ , fuck _the Government_ , and fuck those _slimy Cipher Pol bastards_. Fuck every blown up and self-righteously proclaimed definition of _“Justice”_. And _fuck the dipshits_ using these definitions as rallying cries for the **_fucking_** _Marine civil war brewing on the horizon_.

 

He hopes they all drown in their own blood.

 

“These are quite good,” the shadowy agent suddenly commented. They had a high tenor voice that sounded too loud in the small and still room, making it difficult to pinpoint what gender they were (if they even had one). “In all the chaos and danger, your people still managed to pinpoint capture your chosen subject matters. To catch them at the pinnacle moment of every development while still retaining integrity in your framing and lighting. Just looking through these…if I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you and your comrades had staged or drawn these.”

 

_‘You and your comrades.'_

 

He could feel his jaw clench; the grind of his teeth momentarily all he could hear. For a few moments, he could see nothing—could focus on nothing—even though he knew his eyes were open and dry. After all, the dead couldn’t cry, and sometimes he was surprised he could even bleed. If there was anything left living in him, then it was some creature of bitterness and hatred and pain.

 

When he managed to unclench his jaw and focus again, he focused his glare at his buyer.

 

“Of course they’re good,” he spat. “I was a goddamn Marine photographer. Our _entire job_ consisted of catching the subject at the right moment with a single picture that’ll tell the whole story.”

 

“The whole story,” the bastard mused, “Or the right kind of message.”

 

“Or the right kind of message,” he agreed without hesitation or shame.

 

He knew what he was. He knew what his job consisted of. And he knew what his former superior officers and authorities wanted.

 

People watching was one of those necessary habits you picked up in his line of work. As a photographer, he needed to keep an eye on his subjects whether or not he actually took a picture. It didn’t matter if they were Marines, pirates, civilians, or nobles; they were all just subject matters for him to turn his lenses on. And every subject matter had different facets and faces in different situations and at different times of the day. His job was simply to capture very specific facets and faces for his bosses to present to the world. It didn’t matter if this pirate had saved this village or if this corrupt Marine corroborated with bandits to enslave an island. When he took a picture for whatever PR department was taking the case, the pirate better look villainous and the Marine better appear heroic.

 

He honestly hadn’t had any moral qualms with it. Still didn’t. It was good money. They were all just things on the other side of the lenses.

 

“And you’re prepared to just give these to me in exchange for some basic compensation?” the stranger questioned, seemingly honestly curious.  As if the two dozen suitcases of un-etched and untraceable jewels, a shipment of melted down Celestial Dragon gold, and a ticket to an out-of-the-way country not associated with World Government waiting for him out of this deal were _basic_ and inconsequential. “These are incredibly valuable. I can’t imagine your former employers would be very happy that the original source images of this event disappeared.”

 

“Of course the WG and Marines don’t want these out there,” he scoffed bitterly. “The Marines have to appear like the heroes and defenders and all that bullshit. Public wouldn’t like a lot of the tactics that got used, which is why the snail feeds were cut before they went ahead with those plans. It’s one thing if it’s a big battle where the ‘courageous’ Marines who fight for _Justice_ came out on top. When it turns out the whole fiasco was a giant rattrap that turned it into a matter of shooting fish in a barrel, that’s a different story. Not very courageous or heroic, is it…Even _worse_ considering how close the Marines came to losing and how much damage they took. So yeah, of course these photos were deemed too ‘ _dangerous_ ’. Because who knows? Having these out there? The public might remember that those are still people being blown to pieces. And wouldn’t that be just _tragic_?”

 

His cutting tone only got him an absentminded, amused hum in reply, “I imagine it would throw the World into chaos, yes.” Putting down the photos, they looked back at the man through bug-like, round sunglasses that glinted with what little light there was in the room. There was a creepiness about the agent bordered on blatant intimidation, and the photographer just barely resisted flinching when the suspicious bastard suddenly spoke again. “But I also wonder about the photographers who took these photos. Wouldn’t your comrades protest against their work being so casually traded off to people who seek to undermine the world order as they know it? Or did you steal what you didn’t already have?”

 

“Does it matter?” the photographer snapped. “What difference does it make to you?”

 

“No difference in our transaction. You will get what you are owed,” the Revolutionary assured him. “Just a matter of caution on our part. Photographers and investigative journalists have this funny little habit of getting into places they’re not suppose to when something catches their attention. It would be wise for us to keep track of any of your colleagues that may feel miffed if some of their work ‘accidentally’ turns up during our machinations. Though…,” they leaned forward, steepling their pale, spider-leg fingers. The former Marine got the prickling feeling that the other was giving him a very intent, studying look. “Now that I think of it…there aren’t as many of good photographers these days among the Marines, are there? Not since Akainu started the Internal Purge.”

 

“…Not as many?” he growled, voice tight with barely reined rage. Bringing the subject up, oh so casually, as if they didn’t already _know_. As if this whole farce wasn’t this asshole _manipulating_ and _playing with him._ “Try _any at all, you fucker_! And their replacements are all part of the Red Dog’s pack of ass-lickers.”

 

“All of them?” the figure exclaimed, casually surprised in the way that told the photographer they weren’t surprised at all. His fists tightened in irritation, but he bit his tongue. He needed that money, so he said nothing as the agent continued _talking_. “Hmmmm…Except for you.”

 

He shrugged stiffly, “Except for me.”

 

Silence descended in their small, dark room. A single, weak candle flame creating a pool of light over the wooden table and served to cast the rest of the room into a purgatory-like darkness. It made him feel like he was trapped in a cave with one of those breeds of giant spiders found on jungle Summer Islands.

 

“You wouldn’t be the first to have had their world destroyed by these forces,” the Revolutionary murmured, something too slick in a voice that lacked any true infliction. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

 

Of course he did.

 

If you worked even remotely with public relations and intelligence, you knew that information blackouts ordered by the Marines or the Government usually weren’t altruistic in nature. Everyone had to work overtime to control information flow and public perception during and after each incident. For photographers, that meant an influx of orders and requests of specific varieties (everything from big, distracting scoops to something one could use to condemn a country the Marines had been particularly active in). What _kind_ they wanted usually spoke of what kind of incident they were trying to redirect or cover up. Hell, he’s _been_ there for some of those stories where he watched people’s entire worlds burn.

 

So yes. He already knew.

 

“Why are you bringing this up?” he demanded instead of answering.

 

The agent shrugged with an air of nonchalance that put his teeth further on edge.

 

“I simply want to gauge how much you hate Akainu and his followers,” they admitted, seeming to go with a strangely open (almost _careless_ ) honesty. “I want to know how deep your resentment goes. And how willing you would be to do something to get back at them before going into…’retirement’.”

 

…Well. How willing was he?

 

On one hand, there was a substantial risk of being captured by the Red Dog or Cipher Pol. The whole reason he was taking this deal was because he didn’t want to die (or worse), which would undoubtedly be the result if he accepted and this little venture failed.

 

Without warning, a vision of two of his juniors (his _students_ ) and one of the senior photographers (his _teacher_ and _best friend_ ) facing down a firing squad flashed through his mind’s eye. So vivid that, for a few moments, he was back there again with glaring sunlight beating down his neck and salt in his dry, bleeding mouth.

 

He flinched, unable to stop the physical reaction.

 

In Akainu’s regime, guilty parties who were convicted on suspicion of collaborating with criminal elements were summarily executed. And to this day, no one could specify on what grounds those convictions were made on.

 

All hail Absolute Justice.

 

How much did he want to get back at Akainu and the World Government?

 

Even to his own ears, his low voice sounded _painfully_ venomous.

 

“I’m listening…”

 

(He wanted it so much that he could barely _breath_ with the want that clogged up his throat.)

 

* * *

 

 

They appeared around the world practically overnight.

 

Piles of pamphlets, stacks of paperbacks, pyramids of scrolls, and posters plastered across walls. They were _everywhere_. Nobody knew where all of it came from, who was the mastermind, or even where all of it was printed. Most were black and white on cheap material, but the few that were in color (and printed on more quality material) were quickly snatched up. No expense seemed to have been spared to print a single two-arc story and have it distributed throughout the known world (as well as some of unknown parts). It was the same story, the same captivating _epic_ , printed in every almost language and in nearly every readable format. On the electronically advanced Karakuri Island, people were provided electronic pads to scroll through the pages and photos. The home of the two-elbowed martial artists, Kenzan Island, found the story printed on the larger scrolls the natives were used to. There were even some reports that special fireproof paper were used to provide the story on certain magma-covered islands.

 

But honestly, there was no need for language or words.

 

It was a graphic novel created with vivid, dramatic photos that spoke for themselves. And thanks to the careful and comprehensive formatting, even the illiterate could understand. Heart-rending in its simple story of a rescue mission, it was a beautifully done piece with each panel flowing into the next while featuring characters with _very_ familiar and infamous faces. Readers couldn’t help but feel their excitement rise and their pulse race as they followed a fast-paced adventure of determination, perseverance, sacrifice, and love in the face of truly colossal loss.

 

The story was indiscriminately distributed in every country, on every island, to any and every person. They fell from the sky, delivered by an _army_ of Coos. Certain pages were enlarged and plastered on walls and billboards, and small excerpts were given out in booklets on street corners. There were on every ship that left the crews scratching their heads on how the shipments got into their holds and unable to provide any answers no matter how much the authorities questioned them. In this way, the story reached everyone no matter how isolated.

 

Perhaps if the mystery author had formatted it like a news piece, the story would have eventually died out. But a news article simply wouldn’t have expressed the sheer breadth of information or feeling, wouldn’t have reach as extensive of an audience.

 

There is reason that myth and legends linger in a society’s collective mindset when even memory of their own history fades. And someone had decided to reveal this story to the _world_.

 

It was passed through the hands of every country (WG-affiliated and otherwise), poured over by children and adults alike of every social class and nearly every walk of life. In picking up the curious, little novel, the brewing storm of chaos the world had been stewing in for the last few years?

 

Broke.

 

* * *

 

 

When two soldiers stampeded into the throne room, their sudden appearance and air of urgency immediate had Kohza on his guard. Moving in between Princess Vivi and the door, he narrowed his eyes at the panting guards barely holding onto their dignity but didn’t spot anything immediately dangerous. However, two assassination attempts on Vivi’s life in the past month alone had everyone on edge. He may have been reduced to mostly deskwork as the Environmental Minister in the past few years, but old habits died hard and he was more than prepared to lay his life down for Alabasta’s princess and greatest hope.

 

“Princess Vivi!” one soldier finally managed through short, abrupt breaths to follow protocol with a proper enough salute. “We found the source of the disturbance among the general populace! We…,” the guard trailed off, and there was something strange about his hesitance, “It’s this.”

 

Holding out a battered book of all things, the soldier met one of the elite royal guards halfway and handed it over. The personal guard in turn delivered it to the princess. Her expression openly curious, the princess took the book in her slender hands studied it.

 

One aspect of Vivi that Kohza had always been fond of was that genuineness in every one of her reactions. It actually took more time, effort, and practice on her part to put on the unmovable, calm façade “proper” of her station. After all, as one of the authorities of the world, it was a necessary skill she had to work hard to learn. To this day, Vivi had to actively put up her defenses and brace herself when putting on the face that was Princess Nefeltari Vivi of Alabasta, Heir and Daughter of King Nefeltari Cobra. Now, the only people in the country to see her as she currently was (with her guard down, without that undercurrent of stiffness in her face and posture even when she was smiling genially) were all currently in the room,

 

And it was because she had her defenses down that whatever shocking thing was on the cover seem to strike such a visible blow. The blue-haired young woman visibly recoiled upon comprehending whatever title she saw on the cover. Her expression dropped in a look of absolute _devastation_ and her hands shaking as she flipped through the pages, brown eyes widening in her paling face.

 

“Your Highness?” he inquired, already moving closer. It was considered poor etiquette to approach the royal family like this in ‘court’, but the look on her face made him uneasy. This was a girl who faced down kidnappers, killers, pirates, and Warlords head-on. Scared as fuck, but unflinchingly with equal amounts of determination, stubbornness, and rage. He honestly couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen such stark despair dominate her face. Not since Crocodile.

 

“Vivi?” the King questioned, before becoming alarmed. “ _Vivi!_ ”

 

Tears were slipping down her face and her whole _body_ trembled like a leaf in a storm as she read through the book like a woman possessed. She honestly didn’t seem to be able to hear anybody else.

 

“Princess! Are you alright?!” Igaram shouted rushing over and looming like a protective mother bear, his hands hovering over her shoulders betraying his own helpless confusion on how to help.

 

Kohza had no such compunction, no hesitation born of following royal conventions and hierarchal boundaries. Bending down, he tried to catch Vivi’s wide-eyed, horrified, blank gaze. When that failed, he touched her wrist, still trying to catch her gaze, and attempted to slip the book and its crumpling pages out of her clenched fists.

 

“Vivi,” he murmured insistently, ignoring Igaram’s bristling at him for referring to their country’s princess so familiarly. “Vivi, give it to me. Tell us what’s wrong. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

 

“Luffy-san…,” Vivi murmured numbly, wide eyes dripping helpless tears that had him fully prepared to go rip some bastard a new one. If it was the rubber pirate, he wasn’t sure he’d succeed, but he’d certainly _try_. From the way everyone in the room had their shoulders set, he wasn’t the only one set to do so.

 

Finally managing to slip the book out of her hands, he let the large Captain of the Royal Guard enfold the young woman into a comforting hug before taking a look at the source of the princess’s tears himself. Upon seeing the content of the page she had been focused on, Kohza made a taken-aback, strangled noise before starting to angrily growl enough colorful swears to turn the air blue.

 

Vivi had a soft and loving heart. Seeing one of her beloved friends _broken_ was something that _hurt her_ in a way little else was able to.

 

Kohza was going to _kill_ whatever bastard thought publishing and distributing this shit was _funny_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Marco…”

 

The Phoenix didn’t react to his sibling’s hesitant call; he already knew they were there. But for all that he didn’t want to scare his family, he couldn’t bring himself to stop glaring broodily at the number of paintings gathered across the wall in front of him. They were of different sizes and dimensions, from different artists and hands, all leaned against the storage wall for study rather than display.

 

Since the first copies of _that story_ came out, the Whitebeard Remnants had found multiple paintings and drawings based on the graphic novel. They’d already discern that, of all things, the photos from the book had been taken by or belonged to the _Navy_. _Why_ they were doing this was incomprehensible. However sordid the novels were, the books actually managed to invoke a sense of _sympathy_ amongst a portion of the general populace. Islands that were formerly under the Whitebeard flags were especially sympathetic, a fresh wave of grief arising among the natives at the new knowledge of just how much Marco’s father and captain had struggled to protect his family.

 

(Some of Marco’s brothers and sisters had started families on those islands. Their widows, widowers, friends, and children now had a glimpse of how they died.)

 

It wasn’t _surprising_ that people had started rendering art based on those moments. The War of the Best was a pinnacle point of history that had every Sea in the world holding their breath. But no one could have predicted the amount of people who became fans of the “epic”, nor the amount of story-based art (and even _fan-written fiction_ ) that would be made and sold by enthusiasts.

 

Marco…wasn’t particularly a fan. It didn’t matter that the drawing depicted Akainu looking particularly demonic, that Ace was drawn almost angelically, that Ace’s younger brother looked particularly tragic, or that his father had been painted as particularly gallant and strong. Seeing this _everywhere_ , one of the _worst moments of their lives_ , as FANART…

 

Perhaps it’s just that, three years later, everything still felt too raw. He just had to look at his siblings, look at their depleted crew, to be reminded just how many scars his family still carried from that day.

 

Whatever the case, Marco would rather suffer through healing another bout of Blackbeard-inflicted, life-threatening injuries than continue going onto islands and seeing these photos and art pieces depicted _everywhere_.

 

The wooden armrest creaked alarmingly under the Phoenix’s grip as he remembered the group of girls on the street corner excitedly point towards him and his family while pouring over a frustratingly familiar photo novella. For as much good press as this was, he couldn’t help but feel his family and their grief had been made into a show for others to stare and gawk at, not able to grasp that it was more than a spectacle of a story, more than something to gossip about.

 

“Find the publisher,” he murmured quietly through gritted teeth. But there was no mistaking the unyielding force in every word as anything other than the orders of a dangerous captain. “ _Now_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What kind of scheme are you considering?”

 

The probably-Revolutionary gave him a thin, unnerving smile that made him almost regretted asking.

 

“If you were a Government or Marine higher up,” the stranger started, “And you realized that your enemies have gotten their hands on these photographs…What is the result you would be most afraid of coming to pass?”

 

“The worst _result_?” the man frowned. When the shadowy figure nodded, he took a few moments to ponder that strangely specific wording before a sharp grin broke out across his face. “Oh… _Oh_ …If I was a shithead in the World Government, I would be afraid of a…let’s call it…a _change of perspective_ from the general public. But _especially_ a reaction from the allied countries.”

 

The way the stranger straightened up in just the slightest indicated the most amount of interest the photographer has seen yet.

 

“Please, elaborate.”

 

If anything, the photographer’s sharp not-grin became even more maniac and sadistically excited, because _gladly_.

 

“It wouldn’t take much actually. Not if you know the right way to go about it and have the resources to pull it off,” he clarified, excitement slowly churning his stomach into a froth of anticipation. “The War of the Best was where everyone went all out for each other’s throats, and the Marines couldn’t let the rest of the world _see_ their more brutal and underhanded methods. Doesn’t quite match up with the image of the heroic force of justice, after all. They’d lose the people’s trust. Seeing these pictures? Suddenly, _everyone_ would see how murky the waters are, _everyone_ realizes that the line isn’t that clearly drawn and just how easy it is to step over it. It would be enough of a shock that it wouldn’t be difficult for you to push for a _slightly_ different narrative.”

 

“One where the Marines are portrayed as the antagonists and villains of the story versus a more sympathetic protagonist,” the Revolutionary nodded in understanding. “However, who would be this protagonist? Pirates are not exactly the most sympathetic characters to the general public.”

 

“Normally, no. But that’s the beauty, don’t you see?” the other man started to pace, his mind whirling with which photos he would need, placement, page sets, and logistics. “This whole fucking _shit show_ practically GIFT-WRAPPED a sympathetic hero character.”

 

The almost visible start from the shadowy figure was telling of their instant understanding.

 

“‘Straw Hat’ Monkey D. Luffy,” they murmured.

 

“ _Exactly_ ,” the photographer emphasized triumphantly. Oh, he did so enjoy thinking about what those Government, CP, and Marine bastards would fear the most. “It helps that the Whitebeard Pirates hadn’t been that active for some time before all this. So you can twist it so that the Marines are the ones who decided to stir up shit and ol’ Whitebeard, who just wants to save his captured ‘son’, was lured into a trap by the treacherous Marines’ plot! Highlight all the chaos created by the power vacuum afterwards. Reveal how Blackbeard released a bunch of the world’s _most dangerous prisoners_ afterward. Tell the _World_ how the World Government _didn’t tell anyone_ and _LIED_. Hell, relay how the Marines agreed to it and knew all along. Meanwhile, you have _the perfect underdog!_ ”

 

The photographer started to pace tightly, practically just spinning in a circle as a feverish, distracted light lit up his face. “Straw Hat, who broke into Impel Down and overcame all obstacles _just to save his brother_ , then just misses him and escapes the hellish dungeon to head straight to Marineford. He arrives to the party just as morale flags and bolsters the forces like a hero out of an epic or legend. And despite the odds, _actually succeeds_! Classic underdog story. BUT…it is all for naught as the Red Dog chases after them as everyone is retreating! In the end, the older brother sacrifices himself for the younger and is killed by a cowardly blow to the back! To carry on his will, the pirates band together to protect the younger brother from the demonic Akainu! All very tragic and a great sympathetic story. Very moving.” His thin smile became even more spiteful as he wrapped up his mockingly dramatic storytelling. “Can you imagine? _Pirates_ as _heroes_! That Red _Bitch_ would absolutely lose his fucking mind! I’d give the entire payment you owe me to be a fly on the wall for _that_ discussion.”

 

“That could be arranged,” they mused but waved dismissively when the photographer shot them an indignant look. “I jest. You’ll get your due. But I also know the look of someone scheming. My question is: would you, who have spent most of your life keeping the world peaceful and oblivious to the atrocities of those in power, be willing to work with us on this? To turn the world upside down on its head?”

 

…That was the question, wasn’t it…

 

Would he?

 

He paused and stared down at the pile of photographs spread across the stained, dilapidated table. Each one portrayed a single, chaotic moment expertly framed and captured with a snail or a camera and only a fraction of it all was his work. The rest…the rest was all he had left of his comrades, friends, and co-workers. All he had left of those who ventured onto the front lines and into dark places for mere seconds worth of pictures. It was a dangerous profession, and it wasn’t unusual for them to lose people when they were out there. Shield brothers and sisters, with bonds that were in no way inferior to those between Marine soldiers. That had been what his world had been made of; those were the people that were _his family_.

 

And they didn’t die out there. They died, their families died, their closest friends and lovers died in the home front, at Marine bases, by Marine and Government hands. All because they took these specific photos at the Marine’s and Government’s orders. Those bastards on high thought they could hide their maneuverings; thought no one would notice the disappearance of a few government photographers and editors.

 

They were wrong on both counts.

 

Despite what the ‘officials’ would say, photographers _were_ a branch of intelligence. They had to establish networks, negotiate, and slink around to be able to get their jobs done. If they didn’t learn to siphon, organize, and arrange information from others in order to get that necessary shot? Well, they wouldn’t have lasted in this business in the first place, now would they? The Government, the Marines, the CP branches…they couldn’t have kept them from knowing matters completely no matter how hard they tried.

 

In the end though, having skills in counter-intelligence didn’t keep his comrades from being wiped out. So he was selling all their work because they were gone and he wasn’t and he couldn’t look at the pictures without being driven to drink. In the end, where there was nothing left for him, he just wanted to leave it all behind.

 

“I’ll need some help,” he finally concluded. ”This is all I could get on my own. But if you’re really a Revolutionary…”

 

Bitterness welled up in his throat as Akainu’s ugly-as-sin face was brought the forefront of his mind. He was getting out before he mysteriously went missing as well, and nothing was going to stop him. But…like this fucker said. Maybe he could wait a little longer before starting over as an anonymous, wealthy individual in some far off distant island. Just for a little bit. Just for this.

 

“My last big project…,” he murmured. The little half-smile on his face was nostalgic, but his narrowed eyes gleaned bitter and hateful. “Why not?”

 

* * *

 

 

When he heard Penguin thundering down the metal halls towards where he was working in his personal medical lab, Law should have immediately known it had to have something to do with the Straw Hats. These days, there was hardly a shocking, world-shifting crisis that _didn’t_ somehow involve those lunatics. Even with their recent separation at Nassau, Nami-ya had reliable communication skills and he trusted that they’d have notified him of anything truly outrageous before the news hit the papers.

 

When his subordinate finally reached him, he practically threw himself through the operation room’s double doors and flung what he found onto Law’s operating table. The captain was fully prepared to give a biting reprimand when the cover caught his attention. Eyes widening in shock, he snatched it up and immediately started flipping through the hefty _novel_.

 

It was certainly formatted like a graphic novel or comic, similar to something he’d see his classmates pouring over back when he was a child. At the time, he’d shrugged comics off as trivial and hardly interesting compared to his parents’ well-maintained, heavy medical texts. His parents had read those and then put that information into practice to _save people_ , to perform _miracles_ , and wasn’t that so much more interesting? Now, he felt unexpectedly repulsed by the literature in a way that he hadn’t experienced since finding a trampled newspaper article of a neighboring country proclaiming Flevance’s destruction as an “unfortunate, but necessary tragedy to contain the incurable plague”.

 

The book he was holding captured a truly impressive extent Straw Hat’s adventure at the time. The first few pages were various pictures featuring the various members of the Whitebeard with pointedly skewed dialogue to explain the cause of the war. On the first page alone, it described how the Marines wanted to make a point, to set a trap. So instead of killing the Demon (and there was something like a memorial page with happily grinning pictures of Portgas D. Ace that sharply contrasted what Law remembered of the man’s wanted poster), the Navy purposely set up a situation in which thousands of people would die. That they _knew_ there would be heavy losses and had thrown regular Marines up against what they knew to be the most powerful Devil Fruit Users in all the seas, essentially making them cannon fodder and subsequently punishing any who tried to escape. They then focused on the reason why it worked, presenting not just Edward Whitebeard’s rage, but that of his entire crew, who saw the capture as an attack on a beloved brother. There was even some pointed dialogue about how it was Blackbeard—another _pirate_ —who had captured Whitebeard’s Fire-Fist, not the brave and heroic Marines.

 

To the world, the story bald-facedly established Whitebeard’s attack on the Navy to rescue Roger’s spawn as an act of love for one of his own children. It proclaimed to the world that this boy was the son of Whitebeard, damn whatever anyone else said.

 

From there, somehow, they had scrounged up a picture of child Luffy and a young boy with freckles running through what looked to be a city street, large grins on their faces and obviously yelling. Law took half a moment to stare because child Luffy didn’t look that different than how his ally currently looked. He then moved on to a close-up of Portgas D. Ace on the scaffolding flanked by Sengoku and Garp, a dead look in his eyes that Law found very familiar. There was even a picture of a shouting Luffy-ya…

 

Falling from the sky.

 

What the actual fuck?

 

He thought that had been a bar story fanned by drunks.

 

A few pages were devoted to certain well-known Whitebeard commanders battling with different Warlords. One page featuring the two brothers back to back, both with defiant, challenging grins as they faced off with the surrounding, faceless soldiers. Here was a detailed spread showing a boy with his head thrown back, mouth gaping and eyes rolled back into his head. And he seemed as dead to his injuries and the surrounding chaos as the corpse sprawled in front of him.

 

It was intimate and heart-wrenching and that was his partner’s grief and most tragic moment distributed for everyone to see.

 

At first, it was shock that rendered him speechless. But before long, his eyes narrowed and a poisonous, simmering rage overtook his expression, making Penguin shrink back.

 

“…Captain?” Penguin questioned hesitatingly. “You have your murder-face on...”

 

“If you see anyone distributing these,” he ordered in a voice that his subordinate recognized as a touch too careful. A bit too dangerously casual, A smidge too edged to be entirely composed. “Bring them to me. I have some questions I need to ask them…”

 

* * *

 

 

To be fair, it was truly a _masterpiece_

 

Not only was it visually a cohesive storyline, it also masterfully showed all kinds of elements and information denied to the general public. For the first time, the world was treated to an explicit view of the inside of Impel Down and the going-ons among the Marines chain of command. The pictures of the Straw Hat captain charging through Impel Down with a determined set in his brow, however nicely tweaked and framed, were clearly taken off security surveillance snails. There was clearly certain holes in the transition, but people were suitably caught up with the uncensored images of the hellish prison. Additionally, the world was shocked at the Marine’s trap, at the realization that the Marines truly had planned the entire thing, and that they had covered up and censored news of the escape of so many escaped, highly dangerous criminals.

 

There was _plenty_ of material and issues throughout the book that sent people, governments, and entire _countries_ frothing and lunging for each other’s throats. _Unrest_ couldn’t even _begin_ to describe the reactions. The general population’s reaction was predictable. The fights that broke out among the surviving families of Marines were not.

 

One of the many, _many_ shitstorms included a shot of Akainu killing a hapless, fleeing Marine. Death by burning lava was expected for _criminals_ , not _their own soldiers_.

 

Marine supporters collided with Marines supporters and it was a beautiful sight to behold. Some roared that there should have been a trial, a court-martial, not instant execution (so few realizing that Akainu’s Marines continued to do just that even now). Another faction argued that Akainu was right in doing what he did; that circumstances didn’t change that the Marine had essentially deserted. Others raged at how regular soldiers without the advantages of Devil Fruits or advanced abilities had been essentially ordered to march out and die, used as fodder. Still, others scoffed that to order such things in the first place showed incompetency on the upper echelon’s part, citing that no proper leadership with a basic understanding of command would order soldiers on such a useless suicide operation. _Yet others_ questioned why the Admiral was lurking in the city area and picking off deserters in the first place as opposed to fighting or keeping watch of the front lines.

 

Whoever had published it managed to capture a surprising amount of accurate dialogue as well. And what dialogue they didn’t know of, they fabricated. They fabricated, and they fabricated _well_. Whoever they were, they knew how to work a crowd and clearly had some experience with creating a story from a single picture. They managed to capture the essence of most of the interactions or come up with probable and moving dialogue based on what was screamed and yelled over the battlefield.

 

Best of all? The immediate crackdown on it by the World Government and the Marines drew _even more attention to it_. After all, there were plenty who denounced the novel; calling it all a giant hoax or railing against all characters involved ( _“Can no one see that these bastards are all PIRATES?! WHY ARE YOU FEELING SORRY FOR THEM?!”_ ). But nothing fanned curiosity quite like the authorities forbidding it. Suddenly, the numerous books and pamphlets became scarce.

 

Suddenly, the people were _even more_ interested.

 

Pirates had always the subject of fantasy and imagination, and scarcity quickly bred demand. Despite the governments reminding them that these were criminals that performed atrocities across the sea, nothing spurred people to action quite like censorship. This was especially evident in areas where governments forbid circulation of “fanart” and “fanfiction”. The more ruthless the suppression, the more stubborn the resistance.

 

And if a couple of key members (politicians, officials, Marines, criminals, etc.) around the world played certain roles, made some decision that may or may not have inevitably fanned the flames or encouraged literature circulation? Well…very few people noticed.

 

* * *

 

 

When copies reached Dawn Island, a certain village that sat away from the big city lost their collective shit.

 

Garp supposes he shouldn’t have been that surprised when Woop Slap slammed open his door and trudged in without preamble. For the usually respectful and proper headman, this action was unusual and therefore spoke volumes. But the former Marine just stayed silent and continued nursing his drink as his old friend pulled up a chair across on the other side of the table and sat down heavily.

 

The moments stretched as they sat in silence, the former Navy officer silent and Dawn Village’s leader gripping the top of his cane with folded, white-knuckled hands.

 

He didn’t have to tell Garp the horror most of the villagers’ felt. They were ordinary folk, lucky compared to most in the world. The visions of war and torture, death, and despair that the copies presented were unfamiliar and horrifying. Even more so when most could recognize the pain and devastation of one of their own grinning, wild children in the midst of it all. Many cried honestly at the image of Luffy’s despair of a brother rescued, then snatched away. Fewer shook in disbelief, remembering a small, freckled boy and unable associate him with the dead body in the pages. Set into a story, it made it much more real and a lot more personal than a front-page news piece.

 

The mayor didn’t have to tell him that Makino had one hand clutched a book in her lap; the other fist shoved into her mouth to muffle her sobbing over one of the featuring spreads as her baby slept. By now, everyone had seen  _the_  spread. It was a dramatic thing, and one of the only ones without any false dialogue added in. There was no need. That now famous image of the boy with a straw hat, his eyes blank and head thrown back in a silent scream, kneeling before a bloody, smiling corpse was dramatic enough.

 

Woop Slap didn’t have to tell Garp. Because the next few pages had pictures of Admiral Sengoku pinning The Hero down. Had managed to capture the rage and murder in a grandfather’s eyes as he looked towards Akainu.

 

If that grandfather didn’t already know all this, he wouldn’t be isolating himself from everyone else and so deep in his cups in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 

Magra wasn’t sure if Boss was currently more vicious than she usually was, but he did know it was better than the heavy, savagely silent stewing she had been doing the past few days. That knowledge didn’t stop him from wincing as she bashed in one of the infringer’s head with her club.

 

Ever since one of the newbies brought The Book back to base to look through (and was therefore discovered by the older members), Boss had been inconsolable after throwing a fit that resulted in them having to rebuild half of the base. Usually, she was much more conscious about things like property damage to their own stuff. But the stark images had driven her into a rage that reminded all why Dadan of the Dadan Family was such a force to be reckoned. There were _reasons_ why the big woman had managed to keep hold of power for so long despite the not inconsiderate criminal element on the island and how inhospitable Mt. Colubo wildlife was.

 

But since the blowout, she had spent much of the time facing a corner or in the boy’s old loft; too quiet, too still. On really bad nights, Magra and Dogra had to go get Boss from out of the boys’ old treehouse. It had everyone tiptoeing around in fear of another explosion.  Nobody in this part of Dawn Island would soon forget Boss marching down the mountain and beating the shit out of Garp the Hero. For all that they all feared the Marine, nothing could stop Dadan when she was _that angry_.

 

In a way, this new crew trying to push into their territory was a blessing. A blessing for their Family specifically, not the other crew. Because at least now Boss had something besides her own people or the base to take her frustrations out on. Really, she was doing all the work at the moment. None of them wanted to get in her way as she beat the interlopers dead (or something close to it) in a clear bid to keep herself from marching back down to Foosha to find Garp.

 

To be honest, Magra didn’t like to think about it all that much either. They’d known of Ace’s death and Luffy’s suffering of course, but it didn’t make the blow any softer. The Dadan Family had fostered those kids, watched them grow up, had dealt with their mischief and their smiles, their tempers and their tears. And they were hellions, but Magra changed the diapers of the hellion that died and had been hugged by the one that almost did.

 

So yeah, thinking about it caused his eyes to sting.

 

The rooster-haired bandit had only been able to stand looking through a few pages before turning away. One thing to know Ace was dead, to see the Marine and World Government influenced newspapers plaster the image of Ace’s corpse all over the place. That was bad enough. It was another thing to look through photos to see a play by play about how it actually happened. To read through even though you already know the end was its own kind of despairing dread. There was tension at watching Luffy’s struggle (and they were so proud of him, despite how _stupid_ the rubbery boy was). Fear for Ace, as well as for Luffy, at facing off with the fucking ADMIRALS (and freaking _GARP_ ). Joy at Luffy’s triumph and Ace’s escape, and sheer rage at _knowing that Marine bastard had gone out of his way to hurt a downed Luffy to torment Ace_. That close moment of them escaping, and Ace refusing to run ( _so close but too far_ ), had just cut the knees out from underneath them all.

 

They’d always known that the boys dying were a possibility, having been privy to Ace’s origins since he’d first arrived and Luffy’s loudly proclaimed dreams from the get-go. It was one of the reasons why, if nothing else, Dadan had tried to impress the lesson of _survival_ upon the brats. Namely, that there was no shame in running away as long as they _survived._

 

Magra knew that was why The Book probably hurt Boss even more than when the news of the War of the Best first arrived. It was one thing to know, and another to see. And this book…? The Book showed how, in the end, Ace didn’t run. Ace stopped running, turned back to face the Red Dog, and Magra knew part of Boss felt like she had failed. That if, somehow, she had taught the boy a bit better or beaten out his stupidly protective urges, Ace would still be alive.

 

(They had been _so close_ to getting away.)

 

Oh, Magra had so many of his own regrets. So many questions he wished he had asked Ace before he left. Did they do enough for Ace? None of them knew how to raise a kid, and he knew they didn’t do a very good job, but did Ace know they loved him when he died?

 

If any of them had half a minute with a Seastone-chained Akainu…

 

Who was he kidding? None of them would be able to do anything to the Marine. It didn’t stop the wishing or the pain though.

 

Still, he was glad there was at least one brother out there still watching out for Luffy. A miracle and a relief.

 

* * *

 

 

While Mermaid Island did get a daily delivery of the general newspaper distributed to the rest of the world, few outsiders knew about the island’s local publishing. Specifically, that local independent Fishman publishers created and used special inks that they then printed onto a water-resistant paper. Paper that could only be made from certain polymers derived from deep-sea plants, and inks derived and distilled from specific underwater animals. How these were actually made was a jealously guarded secret by Fisherman publishing houses, as they were considered old and precious techniques.

 

For the locals, if it was written on this scarcely distributed, precious paper, it was worth reading.

 

So when the books appeared, whole _swathes_ of precious, waterproof paper with the water-resistant photos in black and white…

 

“We knew about the War of the Greatest,” Prince Fukaboshi murmured gravely, his shock clear as his brothers pressed close, peering over his shoulders to read as well. “Everybody did. But this…”

 

Towering over them, Shirahoshi sniffled inconsolably, “Luffy-sama!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Holy shit…,” Paulie spat as he flipped through the colored pages of the confiscated copy. “Fucking hell! I knew that kid had the luck of the devil, but did he really manage to survive _this_ …?”

 

Iceburg hummed grimly in agreement. There was a thoughtful tilt in his brow as he gazed sightlessly out the window in his office and over the citywide construction. While his foreman may still be shocked over the past trials, the President was more concerned about who had decided to take so much trouble to put together and publish such a thing. And _why_.

 

“Straw Hat…he isn’t one to talk to others about the past or his hurts,” the blue-haired man mused. A pained look appeared on his face. “And if this wasn’t him, then I can’t imagine Straw Hat’s crew being very happy about this. Moron-ky is probably already pretty torn up about not fighting with the kid, though that idiot would have died before even setting foot on the battlefield.” _And is even more torn up now_ , Iceburg didn’t say. Whatever else that could be said about Franky, the man was loyal and protective to a fault. Seeing a friend put through a wringer like this, knowing he hadn’t been able to help his captain…it made him angry on that moron’s behalf, knowing how much this would hurt the cyborg. Huffing sharply through his, he grimaced, “Whoever put this together was _thorough_ , I’ll give them that.”

 

“But who would do all this?” Paulie growled in astonishment, chewing his cigar in agitation and giving voice to his boss’ own thoughts. “Not just this stuff, but the distribution? We still don’t have anything solid about who got these into Water 7. Apparently, it’s freaking _everywhere_. And _WHY_ go through all this trouble in the first place?”

 

Water 9’s president gazed out of the window, over his city and the construction to make it a floating one. “Someone has an agenda. And I deeply doubt Straw Hat or his allies had anything to do with this. It’s not Straw Hat’s style, at least. And it’s too personal for too many of their people for them to be comfortable with it.” To put it _mildly_. He wasn’t nearly as close to Straw Hat, but even _he_ felt uncomfortable looking through the graphic novel. This was _personal_ , stirring up a special kind of discomfort and prodding at sensitive areas that would make the collective crew dig their heels in and _refuse_ (no matter what advantages it may provide). His finger tapping reflexively in thought, Iceburg pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes as he came to the logical conclusion. “In fact, despite evidence that these pictures were taken by Navy and CP photographers and surveillance, I would put my money on the Revolutionaries.”

 

“Even with Straw Hat being the Dragon’s son?” Paulie shook his head at this, closing the book and sliding it back across the table. “Ain’t right,” he muttered forcibly. “Putting Straw Hat, putting anyone, in the spotlight for something like _this_. Just ain’t right.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Wow!_ ” Kidd wildly howled in laughter. “CRAP! Straw Hat doesn’t even have to _do_ anything! Just bring up the old shit he did and everyone _loses their fucking minds_!”

 

“To be fair,” Killer stoically reported. “The _Impel Down and Maineford Arcs_ novel reveals a good deal of previously confidential information. This month alone, there has been over three dozen revolts in major cities around the world and several attempted break-ins by people who were able to piece together a bit of the prison’s layout. There are also talks of recounting the dead. It seems the Marines and Government were not entirely honest about the number of causalities.”

 

“Of course they weren’t,” Kidd snorted. “Can’t reveal just how much of their forces were taken out in that _one_ battle. If they did, they might as well wave a flag with ‘we are the fucking weaklings of all six Seas, come attacks us!’ written on it. Blood in the water, that’s what it is.”

 

Kidd’s first mate nodded, never speaking if a gesture would do.

 

“It seems strange though,” the masked man considered. “If anything, this gives every person who reads it the chance to consider Straw Hat, and even Fire Fist, in a sympathetic light, does it not?”

 

“But that’s the beauty of it!” the redhead captain grinned maniacally. “Every schmuck can revisit Straw Hat’s failure _over_ and _over_ and _over_ again! Hell, if the World Government did this to try to undermine the rubbery bastard, then they’re more underhanded and vicious than _any pirate alive_! ‘Here!’” He threw down the thick book down with a _SMACK_ , mockingly mimicking the Marines and Government at large. “‘Here’s a record that you can review again and again and again about how you succeeded in saving your brother, nearly died half a dozen times in the process, and made it all pointless because said brother ended up dying _to save YOUR punk ass_!” He casually kicked over the crate-table he had thrown the book on top of, toppling everything on it a spray of casual destruction. “Oh, this is just _too good_!”

 

* * *

 

 

Issho quietly listened to one of his subordinates dutifully read out loud the dialogue before describing the corresponding scenes.

 

“I am glad I cannot see this,” Admiral Fujitora sighs, back into his chair when before he had leaned closer to catch every detail. “How droll. To parade such a thing around is no different than parading a corpse, no matter for what the purpose.” He hummed. “I am glad I cannot see this if these images have become as widespread as you said.”

 

* * *

 

 

Rebecca had raged, frustrated and indignant and strangely lady-like in her temper. It reminded Kyros of Scarlett with such clarity that it was like a punch in the gut and the blanket warmth of coming home all at once.

 

After a lot of stomping around and frustrated noises, she’d finally settled down on the side of the hill their cabin sat on. He waited a few minutes before going after where she planted herself with her knees pulled up and her face buried in her crossed arms. Sitting down next to her, Kyros gazed upon his too-compassionate daughter, who was quiet but no doubt had tears and snot pouring down her face and soaking into her skirt. Sighing he looked out over a recovering Dressorsa.

 

It was a beautiful day.

 

“Straw Hat Luffy,” Kyros rumbled solemnly. After reading that, he felt an increased kinship with Dressrosa’s hero. How could he not? Kyros saw the spread: a man howling in anguish towards the heavens with a loved one’s body at his knees. Saw, and remembered being in that boy’s place, driven senseless with grief and despair. “Truly, he is a strong man. To know that he still holds such drive, that he did not despair, even after going through such a gauntlet. I…I did not do nearly as well.” From the protesting tense in her shoulders, he smiled fondly and placed a hand on top her soft, pink hair. “I truly didn’t. When…we lost your mother. When I realized that my being wiped from her memory had caused her to die? And that she died without remembering how much I loved and worshipped her…?” If he had tears falling down his face? If his jaw and voice trembled as he spoke? Well, it wasn’t the first time. “You were the one who saved me back then, Rebecca. Because no matter how much I _wished_ I could follow Scarlet, I _could never_ leave _you_. I made a promise from the day you were born that I would be with you and protect you always. Even when I wanted to throw myself away, I couldn’t let my own weakness cause you to be alone.”

 

Taking an abrupt moment to snatch his hand away from her head and use it to violently scrub his forearm against his face, he breathed deeply and calmed himself. He was in a better place now. The wounds from back then hadn’t completely scarred over, but he _was_ healing. Suddenly, he felt an impact against his side, and thin arms wrapped around and _clung_ to his waist. Blinking in surprise, a part of him couldn’t help but be stunned that Rebecca, his good and pure daughter, was touching _him_. _Comforting **him**_. A watery laugh escaped him as he carefully placed his hand back on her hand and stroked her hair in a way he hoped was comforting.

 

“Remember this and remember him well, Rebecca,” he murmured. “This is a glimpse of a rare kind of strength. One that will make this man a force for _the World_ to reckon with.”

 

* * *

 

 

They weren’t at all surprised when the Chief of Staff stormed into their office at headquarters a mere hour after their little… _project_ was released to the public. Pushing round, gleaning glasses up their nose, they faced the heavily breathing young man head-on.

 

The blonde had a wide-eyed, thin-lipped look of concentrated rage on his face as he stood at the doorway, his barely controlled Haki causing the air around him trembling like a heat wave. But they weren’t afraid. As powerful and impulsive as their young Chief of Staff was, the blonde was neither stupid nor needlessly violent. Letting their drooping, black hat shadow a long, droll face, they steepled their fingers and politely greeted the young man.

 

Not that said young man acknowledged the greeting. Instead, he swept across the room like a man on a mission and slammed one of the photonovels onto their desk.

 

“What the hell is this,” Sabo’s low, controlled words promising retribution if he didn’t get an answer _immediately_. This wasn’t so much a question as it was a demand. _“What the hell is this?!_ ”

 

They looked down at the books, and then looked back up at the young man, “Do you really not know?”

 

”What,” Sabo rounds the table, looming in their rage. “ _The hell_ ,” a gloved hand crushes the edge of the desk he was gripping. “ ** _Is this?_** ”

 

Sighing through their nose in exasperation, they pushed their glasses up their nose, “What is this?” they repeated, a hint of incredulousness in his voice, because it should be obvious what this was. “ _This_ ,” he emphasized “is what is _necessary_. _This_. Is how we will reach out to the _World_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Nami-ya,” he greeted as soon as his snail took on the features of the Straw Hat’s navigator.

 

“Torao!” she instantly greeted cheerfully. “Wow! You don’t usually call! What’s up?”

 

To be fair, Law really _didn’t_ usually call. But neither of them were going to mention how often a certain rubber man would try to contact the surgeon whenever he managed to get the Den Den Mushi away from the rest of his crew. Law hesitated, unsure what to say. If he had a plan when he picked up the Den Den Mushi…The surgeon glared down accusingly at the receiver in his hand, because the _impulse_ to call, to just _check_ , couldn’t possibly have originated from HIM.

 

“We…On one of the islands, there was…,” Law trailed off, unable to maintain his neutral tone or find any good way to express what they had found.

 

“…It’s about those fucking books, isn’t it?” she finally sighed, her tone becoming uncharacteristically grim with a tight, underlying edge of _sheer_ _rage_ and _‘so help me, I will **end** someone’_.

 

“…They have been liberally plastered on every island, port, and layover we’ve passed,” he admitted. “And I’ve seen other ships keep their own…graphic novels.” Law paused momentarily as vehement swearing echoed from the other end, raising an eyebrow at some of the more…colorful curses (he’d keep those in mind). “I’m guessing you’ve seen them too.”

 

“You _think_?!” the orange-haired woman snarled and the snail’s features twisting to match. “Fuck, we docked at this one island and you know how Luffy is! He was all excited about exploring a new island and was the first one off. When we managed to catch up, he had stopped at this fucking _mural_ someone did of Ace’s death, _fiery fist through the chest and everything_. Luffy just…turned around and got back on Sunny. Which is good because everyone was fucking _staring_ , but do you know when was the last time we just quietly left an island like that?! _Never_. Do you understand how _not normal this is?!?!_ ”

 

Law hadn’t thought that last one was something Nami would ever have had the chance to complain about, but there’s the unpredictability of the Straw Hats for you.

 

“How’s Luffy-ya?” he asks instead.

 

“…We’re not actually sure,” she admitted with some difficulty. “No one…Luffy never told us the details of what happened, and we never asked. Asking about the past just isn’t something we _do_. Everyone’s still a little in shock at suddenly getting so many details, but otherwise…I mean, Luffy’s been sitting on the figurehead a bit more, but he’s otherwise acted pretty normal.” There was a pause. “Well, normal for Luffy,” she admitted before making a tightly offended noise, “All this pity, condolences, and sympathy we’re getting is _unbearable_. We’re getting _well wishes_ from random civilians!” Prepared for her to descend into a screeching rant, he was surprised when Nami suddenly almost visibly stop herself. Instead, the snail drooped, practically pooling, as it gave a tired, frustrated sigh. “On the other hand, we’re also having an easier time getting supplies. Which is good since we’ve had Marines and bounty hunters almost constantly harassing us. And Luffy’s an idiot, so it’s good that we’re meeting some normal people to be friendly with him when the other option is him running off and immediately making friends with the nearest and shadiest character on the island.”

 

Law chose not to take that personally. She wasn’t _wrong_.

 

“But…?” he gave voice to the quiet, unspoken hesitation he could hear from the other side of the line.

 

“None of us read it,” Nami exclaimed defensively. “But with all of this exposure, it’s not like we could avoid seeing anything altogether. And…”

 

“It doesn’t feel right,” Law finished.

 

“It’s rubbing us all the wrong way,” she agreed. “Except for Carrot, I think. She doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but she’s been trying to cheer everybody up. On the other hand, Jinbe…Jinbe’s been taking it _really_ hard.”

 

The surgeon chewed over this information, satisfied he wasn’t the only one feeling prickly about this, “Luffy-ya really never mentioned anything?”

 

“No,” the navigator answered. “That’s just not—To Luffy, the past isn’t something to that should be allowed to chain you down,” The orange-haired Mushi snail gave a weighty huff as it looked off to the side with a cross, deeply reluctant expression. “Back when I still worked for Arlong's crew, my sister had apparently told the guys what had happened to make them understand why they needed to leave. Luffy didn’t listen to even a bit of it, just walked away. What I had done and what had happened didn’t matter, just that someone was hurting me _right at that moment_ and that I wasn’t free _right then_. So everybody talks about little things here and there, but for a lot of the crew…the Straw Hats is as much of a refugee from their past as it is from the world.” Nami sighed before seeming to draw herself back up. “You know what I mean.”

 

He remembered bleeding out with the rush of wind past his ears and the vertigo of being draped over a broad back. He remembered the stink of bull, blood, sweat, and _animal_ while his insides churned from his wounds and a mix of frustration and despair in the face of his ally’s single-minded stubbornness because he just _wouldn’t listen_.

 

So he did know, and he gave the snail a narrowed, flat, pointed look that he knew would transmit through. Nami made a frustrated noise, and he perfectly picture her pacing with all the indignation of an offended cat.

 

“It’s just…,” she fumes. “Someone is obviously _using_ this for their own ends. At the same time, we don’t understand _how_! Is someone trying to memorialize Whitebeard? Embarrass the Marines? It doesn’t _seem_ like they’re doing this to rub it in Luffy’s face. But if they _are,_ I _will_ send Robin and Zoro to **find them**!”

 

He didn’t doubt she would. An intelligence agent and someone who was still known for his epithet as a “hunter” would be a deadly combination for tracking down whoever the Straw Hats wanted to be found. They’d drag the culprit(s) back, throw them at the Cat-Burglar’s feet, and that would be the last anybody heard of them.

 

But did Luffy-ya even _want_ to find the responsible party?

 

“Would it be alright for me to speak with him?” he asked suddenly.

 

“Sure thing,” the Nami-snail shrugged before started yelling, “ ** _LUFFY!_** _LUFFY, IT’S **TORAO**!_ ”

 

If Law didn’t know any better, he would have thought there was a stampede of gorillaphants on the other end of the transmission. But his ears were ringing from the navigator’s screech, so it _miiiiight_ just be him. The snail changed shape to match the speaker, forming a little scar under its left eye and donning a straw hat.

 

“ _TORAO_!” a familiar voice suddenly blasted through excitedly.

 

“Luffy-ya,” he greeted levelly. 

 

…Oh fuck, what was he thinking?

 

Now that his ally was actually on the other side of the phone, Law had no idea what to fucking say. Should he talk about the books? Test the waters and vaguely mention it? Propose to open a discussion on how to deal with and maneuver around this current situation? Or should he wait until _Luffy_ mentioned it? Because Law didn’t know what he would do if they were going to talk about _feelings_. He wasn’t very good at that, but there was that _itch_ in the back of his throat to check (to _ask_ ) how the other captain was doing. And how the fuck did one just _ask_ without _spewing it out like an idiot—_

 

“TORAO, GUESS WHAT?!” Luffy cheered. “WE FOUND A GOLDEN SHEEP!”

 

“For the last time,” the snail suddenly switched to an angry, shark-toothed Nami. “It’s not a sheep! It’s a dressed-up _con-artist, you idiot_!”

 

“IT WAS A SHEEP!” the snail suddenly switched back to an equally indignant and insistent Luffy. “WHEN I BIT IT, IT WAS TASTY!”

 

…. _what_ … _?_

 

And it was just off from there. Law couldn’t help but stare, dumbfounded, as his snail switched from one person to the other. It was rapidly forming orange hair then a straw hat, brown then black eyes and brown again, and he thought there might be an air of exasperation or exhaustion coming from the Mushi (though it didn’t visually show it). Finally, the features settled on Luffy right after Mushi-Nami screamed angrily for the rubber captain to go outside and wait until Sanji was finished with dinner. The snail with a straw hat very demonstratively stuck out its tongue to match the expression the captain was probably shooting his navigator before suddenly switching to a wide-eyed expression with his lips sucked in. Having interacted with them _quite often_ at this point, Law knew with a kind of tired assuredness that the sudden expression was due to the navigator suddenly turning around to catch her captain in the act of making faces at her back, because they were _that used to it_.

 

Meanwhile, the overgrown rubber ball with limbs had just enough self-preservation instincts to know pissing off the she-witch any further was a BAD IDEA.

 

Too bad he was as much of a liar as he was _subtle_.

 

As if to prove Law’s thought process, the snail whistling conspicuously with the guiltiest looking face there ever fucking was. Much to his own consternation, a snort of amusement escaped the surgeon before he could stop himself.

 

Morbidly thinking over the argument between captain and navigator, he wondered if the rubber glutton had ever accidentally eaten a person before (and it was just that no one noticed). It was a thought that appealed to the same, morbid part that liked reading horror stories. He’d remember the Straw Hat’s reindeer doctor mutter mutinously about accidentally being swept up during one of the captain’s feeding frenzies, so it didn’t seem implausible. And with how fast his ally seem to digest food, how fast would a person he’d swallowed be dissolved?

 

…This would need to be studied on a later date.

 

Meanwhile, the other D somehow managed to escape from any further physical retribution (though a couple of yelps indicated close calls) and, with a sheepish chuckle, started chattering away. Instinctively, Law knew that the other captain was heading towards the figurehead of his ship, strolling along casually and rambling on familiarly with that stupid grin on his face. Probably with the sun beating down from overhead and a cooling breeze blowing across the deck.

 

The amount of good weather the Straw Hats seem to get in the World’s wildest sea was frankly _uncanny_.

 

And like this? Just listening to the cheerful babble echoing through the line and filling his dark room? He could almost viscerally _feel_ like he was back on that cheerful, whimsical, warm ship; cut off and separated from the rest of the world. Where every color was brighter, the future and the past were distant things, and the edges of the world were softer. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine a chattering partner pressed against his side, the aroma of the spices of cooking, and the hint of tangerine and freshly cut grass mixing with the ever-present salty air to fill his head in a tingling, heady mix. Mixed with the excited jabbering would be the sharp, echoing cries of seabirds, as well as the hiss and splash of the ocean against hardwood rather than metal. The heat of sun-warmed wood that pressed against his back would penetrate his clothes in a persistent, warm throb through his body. The endless expanse of the sea touching every horizon would be laid out like an ever-shifting blanket before them.

 

(In his room, there weren’t even portholes to show the dark depths of it.)

 

(It was so, so easy to picture.)

 

For a time, his allied captain continued chattering on about every inane thing that crossed his mind, and Law let him. It was comforting in its own way, and he hadn’t realized how much tension he had been holding in his body until the reassuring blabbering had him unwinding. Something about meat, an island, meat, the Straw Hat’s sharpshooter creating a new breed of plant (Law would have to see for himself next time), Chopper creating a new game, meat, complaints about Zoro’s grumpiness, meat…

 

And on and on it went.

 

Eventually, they settled into a companionable (relative) silence. Relative, because Law could still hear the other captain humming nonsensically through the receiver, most likely already sitting cross-legged on the lion figurehead. For a time, the only sound in the enclosed room in the sub was them. Breathing, some static, humming. It was good. It was comfortable.

 

Law didn’t do comfortable.

 

He didn’t even know why he called. In the end, this was irrational. They were _pirates_. It was expected to have their past dug up, to have people cursing their very name (for Law that was part of the appeal). The invasive, investigative press was part of the package. So _why_ were his hackles rising at _this_? Why did it cause a surge of aggression that urged him to find the ones responsible, cube them like so much ham, and rearrange the pieces neatly into a box? Why did it make him wish he was _on_ the Thousand Sunny, to check over his ally even when he knew that this wasn’t anything that could be physically healed? What exactly caused him to think it was a good idea to _call_?!

 

What did all this even matter in the end?

 

“Just asking” seemed so easy a task, but so difficult in practice. Was it _okay_ for him to ask?

Law was familiar enough with himself that he knew he would be lashing out at anybody who so much as hinted at this incident if it were him in Straw Hat’s position. But Monkey D. Luffy wasn’t like that. Would he just get a confused noise in response? Or would he get that deafening, too-heavy silence that preluded… _something_?

 

Both were equally plausible, and it frustrated him that he couldn’t predict the possible negative reactions. Frustrated him that some part of him _dreaded_ the possible consequence of Luffy simply and truly walking away from him.

 

Another part was just honestly hesitant about bringing up such a painful subject. That same part remembered his partner’s reaction after he first woke up after Maineford, desperately trying to wipe the traumatic memories from his own mind. None of them had been able to go after or sedate him, but Law could sometimes _still hear those screams_. It had been discomforting to listen to back then (it reminded him of too many things he’d rather not dwell on), and he didn’t really want to know what kind of feelings it would stir in him now.

 

Law didn’t do comfortable. Part of that was because he just didn’t know how to _do_ comfort anymore. The last time he’d been softly comforting to anyone, it was Lami.

 

(And looking back, all he could do was pull his hat down and grimace at his weak, false attempts of comforting his sister. He had made her promise him to stay in the closet, and she had. She’d probably stayed even as the hospital was burned down with her in it.)

 

Perhaps part of why this agitated him was the sheer _presumption_ the World had. Their presumption and for their entertainment, they made Straw Hat Luffy out as some tragic hero and _he wasn’t_. He was a pirate and _monster_ in how strong he was, and whoever had written this had defined him when they had no right to. Had taken a legend and twisted it for some purpose or another so that they could fit the image they needed. And the World ate up the personal tragedy like so much pigeon feed. Even if the D _were_ a tragic hero, it was some tiny facet that was inconsequential at large, especially at how the rubber man determinedly declared himself as _not a hero_.

 

“They shouldn’t have done that,” he finally murmured, his voice dangerously quiet in his too-still room. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

 

Even just saying stirred the simmering rage that always seemed to be present in Law’s lungs and chest. Because he glimpsed through it, had seen how Akainu had Fire Fist at his feet, sneered, and had purposely shot towards a collapsed Luffy instead of ending the older brother on the spot. It wasn’t a bad move. An expertly exploitive one, actually. And so, so hypocritical. There was no justice in it, however much the Marines liked to claim it was _defending the world_. Corazon would have never done it. But this was another case where he seemed to prove to be the exception rather than the rule.

 

Law saw it. The _World_ saw it. The Marine had done this all in the name of protecting the World, so what right did the World have to this? To act as if they were on _their_ side? What gave them the right to Straw Hat’s grief and pain and horror like this? How could they obscenely glorify that moment of defenselessness, that moment of wrenching pain as Straw Hat had knelt senseless with his brother’s blood on his hands? To imply that this was in any way _okay_?

 

(He was vaguely aware of how his thoughts sounded like that bitter little boy that swore to destroy the world.)

 

“It’s okay.”

 

Law snapped out of his internal stewing.

 

“It’s okay,” Luffy repeated. Something tired and yet unsure, but determined nevertheless. “Mmmm…,” There was another pause, thoughtful and the closest to brooding that Law had ever witnessed of his ally. “I don’t like it,” he finally admitted, and the surgeon could picture the ‘aaahh, well what can you do’ frown, eyes looking up, and the wrinkled furrowed between upturned brows as he tried _so hard_ to think. “But you know…,” he paused before continuing on conversationally with something faintly amused and reflective in his voice. “There was a granny on the last island. She said she hated pirates and she hated Roger, but she lost her big brother too when she was little. And if nothing else, she acknowledged that I was a good little brother.” The way the snail smiled lit up the room. “Shishishishi! So in a way, the weird book things aren’t too bad!”

 

He understood that, and there was even a little relief on his part that the rubber man really did seem to be…at peace? But this was mixed with a storm of incomprehension because he _remembered_ once upon a time holding damp, crumpled newspapers in his hand, and feeling nothing but _moredespairmorehatred_ at the whole world. So he did _know_ what his partner was ultimately implying and thinking, knew that their hatred didn’t change anything. But he also knew how such things had an impact nevertheless. Some part of Luffy would never be okay with what happened, but he had stared it in the eye and had _conquered it_ in his own way.

 

He didn’t understand _how_.

 

“This isn’t something where the ends justify the means,” he seethed tightly before he could stop himself _._ “This wasn’t a news story, this was…,” Law gritted his teeth. “Your struggle to save Fire Fist isn’t something for another to _use_ for their own means.”

 

“It isn’t,” the younger D agreed before stating as blunt as ever, even about his own pain, “But Ace is gone.” As the snail shrugged, there was a flatness in its expression that probably looked too serious on the actual man’s face. “And my nakama aren’t. Sabo isn’t. You aren’t. I’m not. And I’m not done yet. After all, I’m the one that’s going to be Pirate King!”

 

“Whoever manages to get to One Piece first becomes Pirate King,” the surgeon countered/warned the other captain half-heartedly. Really, it just wasn’t the point right now.

 

“Which is me,” was the other captain’s unrelenting insistence. There was a pause before he continued in a quieter tone,

 

He had to remind himself that the Straw Hat captain was fucking insane. The fact that it was really _just_ the Straw Hats and _NOT HIM_ was one of Law’s rare comforts whenever he dealt with the other. It made him feel less like he was the last sane one standing. Having sunken a bit into his sullenness, he almost didn’t catch the other’s next, quieter words.

 

“Hey, Torao? Did you know after we lost Sabo, I was really afraid of Ace dying too? Ace was so frustrated because I couldn’t stop crying and he said I was stupid. He promised not to die so I would stop and we made a promise that we would both live without regrets.”

 

Law couldn’t help but wince at that. Luffy had a _thing_ about promises. He could perfectly see how seriously he took even a childish promise made by children. Little surprise that Ace-ya was beholden to it even after almost a decade later.

 

“I won’t ever forget Ace,” the snail somehow managed to convey serious the hair-raising solemnity in the other captain’s stance. “He’s not here anymore, but Ace is Ace. I’ll love him forever.” And there was something in the way the Mushi tilted that Law could practically see the other captain’s head tilted back, looking up at the sky and passing clouds with a wide-eyed look of contemplation. “When I discover a new island or get a new crew member or become Pirate King, I’ll wonder what Ace would think when he finds out. And then I’ll remember that Ace isn’t here anymore, so I won’t get to tell him. I’ll feel sad, but that doesn’t mean I should stop eating or sleeping or going on adventures. If I did that, Ace would hit me lots!” Luffy shrugged with a sheepishly wide grin that soon shrunk into something thinner, but no less resolved. On the Mushi, it looked disconcerting. “He broke his promise. He didn’t mean to, but he did.”

 

Law had seen that challenging, eagerly determined crack of a smile rubber man on his own face before. It was the kind that appeared in response to whenever the other captain looked towards the horizon, hair-raisingly dangerous and intent and _so ready_ to charge forward.

 

The rubber man depicted by the Mushi suddenly broke into a challenging smirk, “I won’t break mine.”

 

Well…at least one sibling of the two older monster brothers from Hell had known how to keep their maniac of a younger brother in line. (Law didn’t know how Sabo-ya was when he was younger, but he was fairly willing to laugh off any mischief and spoil Luffy now that they were older.) It suddenly struck Law that the lauded Pirate King's son had probably been a _good_ older brother. There was never a doubt that he was a _beloved_ sibling, but there was a sudden clarity that Portgas D. Ace had been a boy with little family to speak. And yet, he had adopted and essentially raised another child who wasn’t that much younger than himself, but perhaps had been almost just as alone as he had been.

 

Law once had a younger sibling, one who was childishly innocent and adored him despite his strangeness. And he had loved her and tried to take care of her and she had _died_ by fire. Here in front of him was a childish, younger sibling who adored his older sibling despite…everything. And _that_ older sibling managed to save him and died by fire. It was a morbid, mirroring parallel he wished didn’t exist, and he knew it probably didn’t say good things about his own mental health that he perhaps felt a little envious of Fire Fist-ya. He certainly didn’t wish for the man to die, but the surgeon knew better than most what it entailed to live with the regret of not saving an adored, younger sibling.

 

And admittedly, what with the relationship he’d manage to build up with the Straw Hats and their captain, he was glad it was Luffy that survived. Law was satisfied that he had a hand in that.

 

He gave a quiet groan, because he was just so _tired_ now, “You still have Nami-ya and some of the others whacking you over the head whenever you decide to do something particularly reckless.”

 

“I have lots of friends who do that,” Luff agreed amiably with a whiny edge of confusion. “It’s weird,”

 

“You bring it on yourself,” the surgeon immediately growled in reply and exasperation. The Hearts Captain wondered out loud, more musing than actually asking, “You really have no regrets?”

 

They both quieted for a bit. Law tense and struggling with whether he overstepped while Luffy was more thoughtful than he had any right to be.

 

“Me and Ace promised to live without any regrets,” he finally repeated. The younger captain’s voice quieted. “But…I do wish I saved Ace,” he murmurs quietly, like a secret. “I wish Ace was alive.”

 

Law wondered if this was something he’d told anyone else. There was a heaviness behind the light, casual tones that said he probably hadn’t.

 

“For your sake, Luffy-ya, I wish Flame Fist-ya was alive too.”

 

There was another moment of stillness, Luffy almost visibly processing Law’s words though he remained so, so still. “But he’s not.”

 

“No,” Law agreed solemnly. “And you almost weren’t either.”

 

There was a thoughtful silence from the other end of the line and a little frown on the snail’s face. But before long, it had a small, crooked smile that broke out in a familiar, toothy, shit-eating grin.

 

“Hey, Torao~!” he repeated.

 

“What?”

 

The grin widened.  “I’m going to be Pirate King! And the Pirate King doesn’t have time to worry about stupid, little book things! Aaaaannnddd well,” he chuckled, rubbing a finger under his nose sheepishly. “Hehe! People are saying Ace is cool and Old Moustache’s nakama and all that. So that’s okay!” He hummed. “Ace’s dream was to create a place for himself. It’s good that people are starting to see Ace differently. He didn’t like it, people thinking about him as Gold Roger’s son. He was the Old Mustache’s Man son and nakama and that’s that. The book is changing people’s minds.”

 

…He wasn’t wrong. Nowadays, Portgas D. Ace was mainly associated with Straw Hat and _Whitebeard_ rather Rogers. It was a victory that Luffy certainly seemed happy enough about it.

 

Part of Law felt like facefaulting at that. “It is doing that, isn’t it…Putting everything that happened and everyone involved in a different light.”

 

“Shishishishi!” the damn idiot laughed. “Law’s a hero!”

 

Law groaned, “Did you have to remind me?! Do you know what kind of _ideas_ people are getting? Uni reported that some civilians have this fucking absurd idea that I’m _soft_.” The raucous laughing from other end only served to _incense_ him. He growled, “ _Straw Hat,_ I would like to remind you as well that there is a _reason_ my epithet is _the Surgeon of Death_.”

 

“Eyup!” the rubber bastard cheered. “Because Torao is cool and can make things go _Shambles_ and _vroom!vroom!vroom!_ and _whishwishwhish_!”

 

Law stared at the transmitter snail before sighing and gave in to the urge of facepalming, rubbing his long-fingered hands over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. It was easy to be frustrated to the brink of insanity, ready to throw your hands up and give up, and then Luffy had to go be genuine without any of the strings attached. Safe to say, it was _frustrating._ Frustrating, confounding, and kind of a wonder.

 

He was trying to regain his composure when Luffy suddenly and gleefully exclaimed with all the eagerness of someone who had found out a secret, “Ooooooo! Traffy was worried about me!”

 

“Worrying is for those who can afford the sentiment,” he snapped, still winding down from the emotional turmoil. (He kept everything tightly reined for a _reason_ , dammit.) The rubbery menace just laughed. Sighing in resignation, Law slumped down in his seat. “Don’t do anything especially stupid.”

 

He didn’t know why that came out of his mouth, but he instantly regretted it. Without a doubt, he’d just jinxed himself and Straw Hat would do something _extraordinarily stupid_ and somehow casually drag _him_ into it.  

 

“Torao is the best!” was his ally’s cheerful reply. It was enough to make Law deflate. There was genuine warmth in the words that spoke volumes because neither of them was very good at saying please or thank you and _how was he suppose to deal with that?!_

 

Seriously, Law was done. He gives up.

 

“Have you been able to keep ahead of pursuers?” Law questioned in lieu of asking whether or not the other captain would be okay. He didn’t actually expect a comprehensive answer, just a distracted one.

 

He didn’t feel less angry or bitter. But this helped. If his ally didn’t feel it was something worth feeling hurt over, then Law would let it go as well. The other was right. There were more pressing things to worry about.

 

Well, he’d _learn_ to let it go. Try, at least.

 

Eventually.

 

And maybe, one day, bit by bit…he could learn to let go of the bitterness and nightmares that haunted him as well.


	2. Dedication Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If it’s not too much trouble, I have another important story to tell. It’s not a fanfiction, but if you have the time or inclination to read it, please do! If you don’t, it’s okay and I hope you enjoyed _Remember the Day_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Letters are used to stand in for a lot of names.

 

 

 Once there was a little boy named A.

 

He went to the local schools and lived in a house with his parents, his younger sister, and his grandmother. Teachers considered him to be quiet, considerate, and a good student who diligently focused on his studies. But mostly as a boy, he was shy and a cautious child that sometimes came off as a little withdrawn. Because of this, he didn’t get along with the majority of rowdier little boys, nor with most little girls who gathered in exclusive swarms and knew words that cut (even at a young age).

 

No. Growing up, he was one to keep and maintain a select number of close friends, rather than a large group of acquaintances.

 

In his first year of elementary school, he made friends with a little girl who had just moved into the area. J was slow, kind of stupid, tended to be out of it much of the time, and had a pension for wondering off. A strange little girl who would hug her teachers every morning and forget that she needed to return to class when the bell rang if he didn’t remind her or pull her along.

 

A and J became the kind of best friends children hope for, and their families also grew close as a result. Their siblings would go on play dates and their mothers would go to meetings together. The two of children would be babysat together, carpool with each other, go to the same supplementary classes, play the same games, and remain in the same elementary classes for those first three years. And more often than not, A followed after J and they played games based off her strange impulses. She would start games that had them gathering and grinding acorns or harvesting pine needles to make into pillows. When one of their moms picked them up, he would follow J in laying in the folded trunk and rolling around every time the car turned. When J joined a new group for the school year, he would join the same group. When she brought along her favorite plushie, a seal named Tinnie, he sought out a stuffed dog a similar size and named it Doggy just so they could play the same games.

 

When other little boys harassed her (pushing her down a steep ramp or dumping milk in her lunch), she didn’t quite understand what was going on. A was usually the one who to pull her away, to tell their parents, to offer some of his own food, or to run for a teacher. Their parents joked about childhood sweethearts and marriage enough that, when they were put in separate classes in 4th grade, the moms went to the administration to try to have the two put back together. It was okay though. Three years had been enough. Unlike most elementary school friends that tended to drift apart, A and J still hung out before school, after school, during recess and lunch, and at pickup.

 

They grew up together, with all the childhood trials and feelings that entailed. When A made another close female friend, J grew jealous. And when another little boy joined their group, A grew resentful. That little boy would become J’s first boyfriend much later on, and A never quite forgave either transgressions.

 

In 5th grade, a new girl transferred in and joined their group for that year. She immediately started determining what the group would do and became best friends with the girl J had considered to be _her_ best friend. And as young, possessive children are wont to do, J sulked about this. Then she sulked some more as the new girl did a number of little things that (as per usual in these elementary school dramas) had J ended up feeling excluded, frustrated, lonely, and confused.

 

Things came to a head when, one lunchtime, the new girl asked J if she could please go sit somewhere else for the day. Their self-designated table was too crowded as it was, what with them sharing it with a few other groups. Everyone else was already there, but they really couldn’t fit anyone else and J understood, right?

 

For a kid, that’s never a good feeling.

 

Too stunned to do anything else, J went to go sit by herself at an empty table in the cafeteria’s corner. Their usual table really was really crowded. She doubted that the table could fit an additional lunch tray anyways. A few minutes later, some noticed J had gone to sit by herself and came over to question her and (upon realizing the problem) encouraged her to come back. Still stunned, J told the friend who had come to get her that it was okay, she would try to get her food a little faster tomorrow so she could sit with them. It really was too crowded today. But really, she just wanted to sulk in peace and lick her wounds.

 

Instead, a few minutes later, A and that friend then came to sit with J at her empty table. Slowly, most of the group trickled over from the central table and set up there for the day, reasoning that this empty table in the corner meant more room for everyone. For J, it was a warm thing in her chest, to know there were people she could always count on. That there was someone who would always be there.

 

* * *

 

 

Children grow, children change, and they both grew up together.

 

While that elementary school group of friends dispersed, A and J gathered another group of friends and, as usual, stayed within each other’s orbit.

 

A opened up. He loved color, pop music, and the dreams the media presented. His family’s house was renovated, and Doggy the plushie went into the family attic. Most of his friends were still girls, but he managed to find and then bond with other boys who also avoided the dick measuring that was so prevalent. He remained a dutiful son (helping take care of his sister and grandmother), an excellent student (AP’s, honors, almost entirely A’s), and the cautious voice among friend even when he was trying to be “wild”. More than anything, he became an adult even while he was a teenager. For him, it was about responsibilities and helping his family and making them proud. It was meeting their expectations and working to create a stable future for himself. His time was spent learning how to cook and clean and being _that_ cautious voice because he was always so aware of the consequences.

 

Meanwhile, J discovered that there was violence in her. And not nearly enough self-control. She grew up and suddenly was a lot more aware of her surroundings. That cute impulsiveness as a child was suddenly no longer cute. Incomprehension turned into fights with teenage boys (all of them bigger than her), replying taunts at drunk racists who shouted at them in the street, and determination to explore every dark alleyway. In all honesty, between the end of middle school and the first few years of high school, they grew apart. Because in growing up, J became just like the rowdy boys who A avoided and they developed very different interests.

 

They still went to each other’s houses, to movies, the same gatherings, and ate lunch together. They were still at the top of each other’s lists when naming friends. However, their particular patchwork, miscellaneous cliché was large enough that they had plenty of people to interact with, without constantly having to interact with each other. It wasn’t until the second half, when they befriended a girl named C, that they regained some of the former closeness. She and A bonded over their shared love of pop culture, celebrity gossip, and sassing each other. Meanwhile, C and J shared a mutual, determined drive to succeed. That…and the two girls had a mutual child psych class. C has stated she will forever hold a grudge for J getting a higher score than her on the baby simulation right before dropping the class altogether.

 

The three started to have outings separate from their other friends. Gossiping, chatting, and quipping at each other even as they all expounded about their dreams and plans for the future. It was flopping across each other in a single bed while ranting and watching horror movies that scared A and C, but delighted J. It was A and J helping C set up her birthday celebrations and sitting in the back of A’s car in the middle of the night with Taco Bell to look at the stars or fireworks. Later, it was struggling to arrange meetings every time the were all back in town from college and delighting in catching up. It was C repeatedly demanding that they would be among her bridesmaids/men, and that she would pay to fly them to India herself when time came. It was A making wisecracks about C’s desire to become a mom in her early 20s and how he would invite us to his “bachelor pad~”. J said nothing, just listened. She had no such plans. So instead, she promised both that she would be there in the future to mouth off at both of them. Because she was simply that kind of bitch.

 

They laughed and vowed with knowing smiles that they would grow old together. They swore that they would be those kinds of friends and those kinds of old people.

 

In the middle of the summer in 2016, J found the LawLu Week event a few days before it started and was inspired to join. She started by jotting down ideas for each prompt, going so far as to start plotting and writing extensive drabbles for each one. For the ‘Memories’ prompt, she thought it would be an interesting idea to write a reaction/meta fic for what would happen if the One Piece manga (the Maineford Arc, specifically) appeared in the universe. An extensive outline was drawn out about how it would be published by a mysterious third party without consent and the kinds of reactions it inspired.

 

Few months later and at the start of the school year, J received news that A had collapsed in front of one of his classes before being taken to the hospital. He was examined and, days later, the test results confirmed the doctors’ initial diagnosis.

 

Without anybody realizing it, A had developed Stage 3 non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.

 

It was a “treatable” cancer. That was what the doctors told A’s parents, and that was what they relayed to family and friends. A’s father had survived non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. In fact, so had J’s dad. And both men had been much older with more health problems when they had undergone treatment. Meanwhile, A was in his prime as a relatively healthy 20 years old young man. He was starting on a new work-out to trim the bit of pudge he had developed in college, rarely drank, didn’t smoke, and cooked home-made meals for himself and friends. Sure, he had to drop out for the semester, but he’d catch up. Without a doubt, he would recover from this, finish college with his biology degree, and get accepted by one of the med schools he’d applied for. It would be hard, but he would get through treatment with a few more scars, and life would move on.

 

* * *

 

 

The cancer was…aggressive. Very aggressive. He went through intensive chemotherapy and lost his hair, taking to wearing a baseball cap. Everyone was quick to assure him that his hair would grow back afterwards. J went as far as to tell him about what she remembered about her dad’s chemotherapy, commenting on how he had also taken up to wearing a cap. In the end, she could tell it didn’t help A feel less self-conscious.

 

Unfortunately, in addition to the large cancer growth that covered a number of his lymph nodes, a good deal of his intestines had also been affected. A underwent surgery that would cut out the affected lengths of intestines.

 

His surgery was botched. Or perhaps it was just that it had limited success.

 

A few weeks after the surgery, A suffered from sudden sharp and excoriating pain in his midriff. Gastral fluids had started to leak, and he was rushed into the hospital to patch it up. He spent his birthday in the hospital, recovering. After this second surgery, his already limited energy and restrictions made it so he could move around even less. The times J could fly home, he no longer had the energy to do the exercises she encouraged him to do in order to stretch the surgery scar tissue. When it became clear he was not going to be better soon, he was forced to forego what should have been his last semester at college.

 

Then, the initial progress in shrinking the growth on his nymph lodes…stopped.

 

A was moved onto experimental treatments.

 

His parents started looking for alternative treatments in and out of the country.

 

* * *

 

 

A was very brave through it all.

 

He was exhausted and sore all the time, but he did a very good job when people came to visit him. He was quieter, more withdrawn, distant. But he smiled and he listened and he tried his best to go to J’s house when he could. It was part of his childhood. Tangled up with C and J, he confessed that it felt like everything was normal again. And he did so miss feeling normal.

 

Despite his fears and cautious nature, A was a happy person. Even while he pained and tired and haggard from recovery, he tried to shelter others around him. His insecurities and his depression and his feelings and how his sickness clawed at him? He kept boxed up, because he saw how sad it made the people who loved him. Because he was just that kind of kind.

 

Because everyone wanted to help, but most couldn’t do anything about his pain besides advising him to “not think about it”.

 

Of course, that didn’t work. It got harder, and he was just mentally and emotionally and so _physically_ exhausted. He took to scrolling through social media, looking at people with their perfect lives. A hurt, and he tried to keep it to himself, but it became too hard to keep in a box. It became hard to keep everything from his family. So he tried to keep it from his friends.

 

But he confessed how much he hurt to two of his closest confidants.

 

C planned gatherings and activities and happy distractions. She brought lights and snacks and happy memories and stories. Her gift was energy and enduring positivity and the ability to bring a smile onto his face. Or, at least, get a rise from him.

 

J had no such abilities. She knew bluntness, forceful optimism, and handling challenges and pain with a closed fist. Her gift was helping with physical things and sitting him down to talk. More than anything, she knew of enduring physical pain that didn’t stop simply because you didn’t think about it. He laid in bed and J told him that it was okay that he felt bad, and that she was sorry he was in pain but it was okay to feel it.

 

He had a lot of feelings. A lot of things were brought up much, much later the more treatments failed. She found that the only way she could help was to listen to him. Listen to his frustrations and his fear, share in his pain and despair, and tell him that it was okay to feel like he did no matter how dark his thoughts became. To catch him just before his despair crested and to pull him back, ease him down.

 

This boy wasn’t naturally a despairing kind of person. He wasn’t the type to remain pessimistic or let his pain or negative emotions rule him. And every time he managed to pull back, to pull together ready to continue on doggedly, J was awed by his strength.

 

* * *

 

 

April 2017 and it was finals week. C called J and told her A's parents had been unable to wake him that morning. After an initial hospital examination, doctors immediately took him into surgery and tried to stop the rapid swelling of his brain.

 

A day later, it was announced that he was in a coma.

 

J argued with her parents over the phone. They wanted her to remain at school, to take the required finals to graduate. More than anything, they wanted to shield her from this. She told them if they didn’t help her get home, she would find a way herself.

 

A few hours later, she caught a red-eye and flew home with the help of her aunt’s priority ticket. It was a numbing experience that was alleviated by good people. One friend helped her pack, another drove her to the airport in the middle of the night, and others told her to keep in contact.

 

When J arrived, A looked like he was sleeping.

 

* * *

 

 

During this time when there was still hope, people were being notified of A’s condition. His entire family was brought or flown in. Aunts, uncles, and grandparents all came, filling the room. When people weren’t in the room, they lingered in the surrounding waiting rooms and wandered the hospital like ghosts. J and C lingered with another mutual friend. They were the only non-family members to make it there.

 

Among the people who were notified, C contacted one of her former friends, who turned out to be the “new girl” from A and J’s elementary school. She and C had formerly very good friends until C broke off their friendship, their relationship having turned sour over time. The girl responded by criticizing everything from C’s high school GPA to her choice to go to community college (stating that, unlike C, she herself went to an “actual college”) to her family and long-distance boyfriend. C had ignored her after that, but remembered that the girl had gone to the same college as A. In fact, she had been one of A’s college classmates. Both he and the girl studied pre-med, had some of the same classes, some of the same professors, and even went on the same study abroad trip to Italy.

 

Her response to C’s notification was that she was surprised that A considered her a friend, as they “weren’t that close”. Apparently, she hadn’t noticed A had been absent for the entire year.

 

(Which isn’t her fault. But later on, J couldn’t help but feel resentful nevertheless.)

 

The girl then proceeded to post about A’s sickness and condition on their graduating high school class’s Facebook group, much to C and the mutual friend’s indignation. Apparently, the heart/sparkle emojis as well as the tone of the post made A’s current condition sound like the latest piece of gossip. Nearby and listening, A’s aunt was pissed about the girl’s assurance that she herself would keep everyone updated on what was going on, despite being on the other end of the state and taking her finals.

 

J was…numb. She didn’t care and she didn’t want to. But the more C and the mutual friend raged, the more she stirred.

 

Numbness became something that was some part protectiveness and most part just looking for a fight. With C’s help, J got the girl’s number and sent a carefully polite greeting. The girl’s eager response told how horrified she was at the news, seeing as she and A were such good friends. She became significantly less friendly when J asked her to take the post down. Stating that while she many not have asked permission to disclose the information she did in the first place, her post had received 66 likes and a comment from A’s younger sister (who had been using A’s Facebook page to contact people), which meant everything okay.

 

Unfortunately, the third hand information she had received from C was inaccurate. By the time the girl had made her post telling everyone to pray for A to get better and give well-wishes, A had been declared brain dead. Hospital policy only allowed a patient declared so to remain for 24-hours before a decision had to be made. By then, their guardian must decide whether to pay to move them to life support or pull the plug. The doctors’ advice was to pull. There had been too much brain damage. A few hours before the girl had created her post, his parents had made their decision.

 

Even while messaging the girl, J did not mention all this to her. As she told the girl repeatedly, these were announcements for the family to make. Not them. Meanwhile, all she could hear in her ear was blood and A sobbing self-consciously about how he didn’t want people to know him as “that guy in our class that got cancer”. About how he didn’t want cancer to dominate his identity the same way it dominated his body and mind.

 

J was taking it on the girl, she knew that. She was grieving, tired, and so infuriated that the girl was _there_ with A while J was on the other side of the _country_. It frustrated her that the girl would text questions and requests about a school event, yet not notice he was back home and _not at the school_. But it wasn’t the girl’s fault. This was what J forcibly reminded herself as she struggled to keep her wording civil. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. But temper made J petty and mean and increasingly vicious the longer the girl preached flowery lines about how her praying and well wishes counted for _so much_.

 

She struggled as the girl brought up finals, which to an increasingly insensible J, sounded like _excuses_ for someone who was preaching about how much they _cared_. When a slew of criticism about academics didn’t seem to work, the girl retorted that she was reaching out _for_ the family. When brought up again that she should have simply _asked_ first, she replied that the family should have reached out to _her_ in the first place. She was doing prayers after all.

 

J lost my temper, and texted: “I didn’t pray, I’m here”.

 

As soon as she sent it, she regretted it. Even more than if she had actually cussed the girl out, she regretted this. They were words born of pure spite, and spat out of sheer meanness and frustration meant to strike at the girl’s soft spots.

 

Because J missing her finals was her own choice, and it was unfair to condemn others for it. She hated that she’d implied that people’s good wishes and prayers meant less than being physically there, when it was just J losing her temper at what she saw as attention-seeking. Eventually, the girl took down the post, being sure to rant at J about she interfered with her way of grieving and how she now couldn’t focus in class. C finally took J’s phone and blocked the girl’s number.

 

But the damage was already done. People had seen the girl’s posts and passed it along. Before unplugging him, his younger sister read through the messages resulting from the girl’s posts. There were some goodbyes, some comfort to the family, and…

 

“When you get better, we’ll go to the Nicki Minaj concert like we’re always talking about.”

 

“When you get back, let’s go down to Mexico again!”

 

“Get well soon!”

 

* * *

 

 

There was no good-bye. Not really.

 

One day, A was feeling better. He was going through applications, had really _decided_ what he wanted to focus on in med school. Then he went to bed and gone to sleep.

 

Then he never woke up.

 

When J had arrived at 9AM in the morning, she had driven straight to the hospital, sat down, and spoke with him. Everyone had hoped that, ‘if we just talk to him enough, he would be guided back to our voices’ or something along those lines. They were all asking for miracles. J spoke to him for _hours_ , because it was the only thing left she COULD do for him. She talked to him for hours, for days, and later learned that the nurses thought they were a couple. They commented about how “that was love”, just like when they were kids and their parents talked about marriage.

 

It wasn’t romance, but it was love.

 

In end, it was a useless. Once everyone said the only goodbyes they could, after finishing reading all the messages, they unplugged the machines that kept his body alive.

 

The heart monitor kept going a while after that.

 

Eventually, the beeping started to slow.

 

Then the beeping stopped.

 

His mother and grandparents wept and the Buddhist nun did her last prayers before he was carried to the morgue.

 

On the way to the morgue, as they were putting him down, some of that last electrical impulses jolted through his muscles.

 

And he smiled.

 

It looked so peaceful.

 

* * *

 

 

There is violence in J, and not nearly enough self-control.

 

It’s not the girl’s fault. J told the younger sister what happened and apologized for interfering. A’s sister shrugged. She didn’t care either way. Maybe she would have once, but she was grieving. Now, exactly a year later, J could admit that the girl probably _was_ also grieving and not seeking attention or lording her knowledge of gossip. That she had reached out because she also didn’t know what else to do. Thinking logically, she could admit that the girl had the right idea, even if it was handled very poorly. But thinking back to that day and remembering made all of J’s logic go right out of the window. The girl wasn’t at fault for J using her as a scapegoat, but  J had  _issues_ with her temper and her protective urges. So she avoids any mutual friends and doesn't go to the downtown neighborhood where she knows the girl lives. It was easier to hate and direct all the negative emotion at someone you never _want_ to see again, and harder to cry and despair over someone you _can't_ see again.

 

One day, months later, J came upon the Day 5 LawLu draft that she started the summer before everything. Reviewing the plot points, drabbles, and feel of the fic, she suddenly felt nauseous at the similarities and parallels she sees between the plot on the page and what happened.

 

The feeling of loss, of old wounds and pain and suffering. The announcing of private information to the world and the lack of consent. A photograph of one last, peaceful smile that brings wonder to A’s mother. Dozens of little, tiny, parallel details.

 

This story J started had suddenly became something abhorrent to her. Never had she wanted to  _not_ write something so much. It provided hooks that dug at a wound; closing up her throat and making her want to tear down the walls around her with her nails. She thought about throwing the story away or skipping it altogether, but something made her hesitate and kept her from doing it. Probably she was simply stupidly stubborn and had the horrible tendency of being very bad at letting go.

 

In those first months since she unearthed the outline, working on the fic made her hands shake and her breath come short. It made her feel nauseous and off-balance and just a mess of chaotic feelings. Rage and indignation usually won out in the end, her focus going back to the girl. Focusing on hatred and rage was easier than crying and better than lashing out at the people around her.

 

Meanwhile, the fic evolved from a simple fanfiction into an outlet for her to untangle the twisted, balled up mess of emotional threads sitting like an expansive lump in her chest. So many times, she really thought to trash the fic as she poured and upchucked her feelings onto a page, her inner-writer unhappy at the mess of _too-personal_ and OOC-ness. But the more she hated it? The more she wanted to recoil from it? The more it became something she did _because_ it hurt so much. To her, the more pain it caused, the more reason to face it heads on. Something so painful probably had to accomplish something. It probably was  _some_ kind of healing.

 

It took a while, but it did help. At least, it helped her to sort out some feelings and unwind most of the rabid, thrashing emotions like so much string. It wasn't gone. But they were no longer something that ate at J’s insides.

 

She wrote and revised and wrote and revised; each go-through like another layer of frantic emotion meted and calmed and appeased. Sometimes it made her feel relief. More often than not, it resulted in exhaustion. While she came up with more ideas and more stories, she set them and other WIPs aside to focus on this one. Until, finally, the dialogue sounded more like the characters in the story, rather than her own voice screaming back at her from the page. J wrestled with it until she was able to acknowledge the truth of the matter.

 

What the girl had done? A honestly wouldn’t have cared.

 

Maybe he would have once upon a time, but at that point? Exhausted, pained, depressed, and feeling so distantly mature after a year of struggling?

 

Just like Luffy, A wouldn’t have cared. 

 

And after she finished, she sat down and reviewed her own tired thoughts and heard-earned conclusions. This project had become the most excruciating of personal project and writing _it_ really did help _her_. But besides that, what was the _point_? After all this, with all her rage and grief and chaos stripped away, what was the core and priority here?

 

She wrote a rant. Just one last rant about everything from the girl to the doctors and hospital to a government that didn’t prioritize healthcare and a world that failed to treat something that was “treatable”. J _raged_ at a world that left them feeling so _betrayed_. Then she looked at her rant and realized why it felt so off. More than anything, the priority and the wish and why she was so angry was because A had seemed to disappear. Suddenly, he was gone and had been replaced with a tombstone she visited every month, another name in the obituary, another statistic, another patient report in the hospital archives soon to be shredded.

 

J dumped the entire rant and wrote a story in third person to distance herself and a note of a hundred different things about a boy who was a person and an individual and a stranger to those reading about him. A stranger, but a _person_ who liked Chinese food and Taylor Swift and small, yappy dogs. With this story, maybe a bit of him would linger somewhere in the back of the readers minds long after they finished the story.

 

 _‘This is why,’_ she thought with relief. ‘ _This is why I continued and why I finished_. _This is why I should share this. This, at least, wasn’t for nothing_.’

 

The names were replaced to maintain anonymity the family’s wished for, and the person, not-a-fic story was edited a dozen times. J spoke with friends and family, and with each talk, it hurt less.

 

His college gave him a posthumous degree and his parents walked across the stage at the graduation ceremony to get it. His first drink (a lychee _thing_ in a fancy restaurant) consisted of him ordering the drink to Instagram it before having C and J drink it for him. He told C and J that he regretted devoting so much time to his studies and felt he wasted so much time. Those are words that still haunts C. Meanwhile, C regrets not spending more time with him, having been so busy with school and family. Another friend who had also grown up with A and J remarks that she will forever remember A as that pudgy little child she first saw, smiling down at her from the top of a playground. Yet another friend commented that what she loved about him most was his easygoing nature, ultimately willing to roll with whatever was happening (with some complaints) and forgiving easily.

 

There was once boy named A and he existed. He breathed and hiccupped and burped and rolled his eyes and snorted and was one of the first people in our grade to start driving. He disliked soundtracks that were made specifically for movies and “Beez in a Trap” was his and C’s song. It inspired the nicknames shared between A, C, and J.

 

What J regrets is something that could be summarized by a quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald:

 

_“Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be.”_

Most of J’s life had been with this person being _there_ , and him being someone she could count on _always_ being there. She had lived with an expectation that she would know an A that was 8 years old, that was 10 years old, that was 15 years old, that was 20 years old, that was 40 years old, that was 60 years old.

 

She regretted that he would never watch _Black Panther_ or _Avengers: Infinity War_ or any of the hallmark movies that defined their generation. That he would never be dragged to watch _Shape of Water_ and squirm in discomfort at the blatant fish sex.

 

She regretted that he would never get to walk across the stage to get the diploma he worked so hard for. That he would never attend his sister’s high school or college graduation.

 

She regretted he would never go to medical school like he wanted to, and that he would never get the bachelor pad he dreamt of. That they would never go up to Washington state together to look at properties.

 

She regretted that he never did get his first legal drink. That the three of them would never go on the Las Vegas trip they had been planning right up until he got sick.

 

She regretted that he didn’t get to go to that Lana del Rey or Taylor Swift concert or listen to Nicki Minaj’s newest album. That he wouldn’t get to attend C’s wedding or be the bad influence on C’s children that he always threatened to be.

 

J had done what she could in the time he lived. What she regretted was a stolen future that he had worked so hard for, but never reached.

 

* * *

 

 

Once there was a boy named A.

 

This boy was genuinely kind in a way that astounds the author, loyal, and a good deal scared of the unknown. He was more a follower than a leader, but still had his own voice and was no less important than anybody who had a louder voice. Throughout his life, he was helpful, a good friend, considerate, and could hold a grudge for a literal _decade._ His friends know of his sass, his small bits of pettiness, and some of his indecisiveness. None of this changed that he had a willingness to jump into whatever conflict or trouble his friends got into. None of that changed that, until April 2017, he always _stayed_.

 

And while this story calls him a boy, he was actually a young man of 21. A young man who was sometimes too responsible and sometimes held himself back too much. He went through more trials than people his twice his age have experienced, and he often felt insecure and unsure about the direction he was going with his life. But he went through life like a boss, nevertheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read up to this point...thank you. 
> 
> I probably didn't succeed, but I wanted my friend to continue existing. Somehow, someway. My hope is that, even if it’s just a random person reading this weirdo fic writer’s dedication, a shadow or smidge of an idea of him will exist in the mind of the reader (you). Whether or not this actually? I am grateful for you, the individual reading this. 
> 
> Thank you so much.
> 
> -JadeFlicker

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: http://jflicker.tumblr.com/


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